


Obedience Training

by benoitmacon (larvae)



Series: Master's House [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Elias Gets Compelled, Established Relationship, Fully Clothed, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Games, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larvae/pseuds/benoitmacon
Summary: ELIAS[PLEASURED EXHALATION]That’s… That’s quite nice, actually. Tingly… but sort of freeing.[Chuckle]You know, even Gertrude never properly tried to compel me. I always wondered -Jon spends some time in Elias' office exploring his burgeoning powers.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims
Series: Master's House [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750198
Comments: 13
Kudos: 128





	Obedience Training

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features a scenario where Jon withdraws his consent. This is immediately recognized and the scene is stopped. Comfort is given.
> 
> This isn't tagged as noncon or dubcon because Partner A withdrawing their consent and Partner B listening immediately is fully consensual. However, withdrawing consent, especially in fanfiction where generally everything operates with Bodice Ripper Consent dynamics, isn't okay for everyone. No matter how well it's handled, Partner A feeling uncomfortable and withdrawing their consent is something that could easily be upsetting for people. 
> 
> Please take care of yourself going forward. <3

The floor of Elias Bouchard’s office was cold, and Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, had taken to spending a good portion of his time on it.

When it was initially laid in 1818, it was made of structural lumber, intended to be covered with a decorative rug. In 1930, over one hundred years after the Institute first opened its doors, it was replaced with some decidedly more fashionable and visually appealing black walnut. The building was old, and the twisting labyrinths of Smirke’s subterranean architecture were damp, so the chill rose from them and seeped into the Archives, through Artefact Storage, through the Library and the administrative offices, past reception, and into Elias Bouchard’s office, where Jonathan Sims, The Archivist, now sat.

Jon, in his rapidly evolving mind’s eye, could see the builders pausing as they tore up the untreated flooring from the previous century to remark on the startling draft. The thought flowed gently through his mind, followed by an awareness that one of them, named George, took his tea black, and was a generally dour and humourless sort of man.

In the present moment, Jon sighed in deep contentment and leaned into Elias’ leg, which held his weight along his left side, his shoulder pressed into the side of his calf, his head bent to rest on his knee. His right leg was tucked up to his chest and his left was stretched out at an angle to avoid the imposing footprint of the executive desk he sat behind. Elias was focused intently on his monitor, editing the most recent payroll. Periodically, when he paused to read over his work, he would lower his right hand to the crown of Jon’s head and scratch his scalp gently with his nails, which made his mind go pleasantly blank before his focus pointed in a new direction.

The Knowing had been cacophonous and overwhelming at first. It burst forth from all directions, prying into every crevice of his mind like an untamable weed. But here it was bearable. Here it was made bearable. Made so by Elias’ office, with the cold of its floors, the impenetrable dark of its drawn curtains, the archaic lighting of its wall mounted gas lamps, and the gentle rhythm of Elias’ fingers brushing through his hair. It all came together to shrink the screaming of Jon’s burgeoning awareness into a narrower, one point perspective. When he was here he felt his mind could wander towards its novel thoughts rather than be accosted by them. The difference between a lamb coaxed to bend its head to water, or being pulled into it to drown.

There was an unmistakable sense of being kept, but like any tamed animal, Jon learned the luxuries of subjugation easily outweighed its occasional humiliations. The humiliations weren’t actually that bad, if Jon were being honest with himself. Not behind closed doors. Not on his lips, across his back, or dribbling down his chin. He had wondered more than once about being taken to a bed, but outside of the rickety cot tucked away in a spare office in the Archives, the Institute lacked options. It was becoming increasingly difficult to go home to his flat, which felt more and more alien as he grew into his role, and seeing Elias’ home seemed equally unfathomable. Theirs was a covenant formed and forged in this place of power. Bringing it out into a world not made to hold it felt impossible. Not to say that this felt right. At its best it felt like concession, and at its worst like cowardice. But mostly it felt easy, like succumbing to the tide. So Jon sat at Elias’ knee, letting his worries fade as the shifting radio static of his burgeoning cosmic awareness come to the forefront of his mind.

He had sucked him off like this once. It had just sort of… happened. Jon had never understood when people said things like that. Long sequences of repetitive and physically strenuous motions don’t “just happen”. He’d heard the same excuse from Tim often enough when whole government databases become suddenly and inexplicably accessible to Library staff. But as of late he’d learned that these things do just sort of happen if you’re in the right situation for them to do so. This most recent time he had just sort of… ended up with Elias’ cock in his mouth, sort of half crawled into his lap from under his desk, bracing his weight against his splayed thighs, doing as much as he could to keep him from his work. Forcing his head down until he gagged, drooling over himself when he lifted it up, following his mouth up and down the length of his cock with his hand and pulling his slacks halfway down his thighs to get his fingers under h --

His pleasant recollection was interrupted when, above him, Elias made a small, irritated sound, and Jon heard him tap aggressively at the backspace key six times. It was a recent memory, but one he returned to often. Especially towards its end, when Elias’ forms and figures lay fully abandoned and he came down Jon’s throat with a dozen repetitions of his name spilling from his lips. He wanted very much to do it again. He wanted to hear his name said as desperately and as often, pulled from Elias’ mouth with such fervent intensity that it became an exhalation.

“Jon, I really do have work to finish,” Elias said curtly from above.

“I didn’t say anything,” Jon said, craning his neck back towards Elias’ face.

“Don’t be obtuse, Jon.”

“Prying into my head?”

“You’re yowling like a cat in heat,” Elias said sharply, his eyes still on his work, “and if you’re going to be a tramp I’ll put you out in the hall.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Jon, biting back a smile.

“Don’t push me.”

Jon settled back against Elias’ leg with a self satisfied smile, drumming his fingers idly over the knee he had tucked up to his chest.

They’d been bruised, recently, from the force with which they’d been slammed into this same drafty black walnut floor. His knees. And the back of his throat. And the backs of his thighs. If he had his way of it, he’d introduce his cheekbones to the same instrument that had colored his knees, with a polished black leather loafer grinding into the side of his head, its well maintained tread twisting cruelly into his hair. Jon wondered, with a curious tilt of his head, how much force his back would have to meet the floor with to knock the wind from his chest, and how much more it would take to leave a mark across the full expanse of his shoulder blades.

With an irritated tut and a weary sigh, Elias pushed his chair forcefully away from his desk, leaving Jon to brace his weight against the empty air. His fall was a short one, interrupted by Elias’ hand at his collar, spinning him around to sit between his legs. Jon found himself at an odd angle, his weight distributed unevenly between his shirt and whatever purchase his knees could find on the floor. The front of his collar cut into his throat. He placed his palms on Elias’ thighs.

“Keep it up, and I’ll put you out onto the street,” Elias said coldly.

“Is this beneath my pedigree?” Jon said, his words pulled out from his closing throat and his widening grin.

“It’s certainly beneath your station.”

“Teach me a lesson, then,” said Jon.

The power in his words came naturally and unexpectedly. So much so that he didn’t even realize what he was doing until the force of his persuasion wove through the air, from his lips to Elias’ core, pulling him forward like a puppet on a string. He went rigid, his eyes wide and his lips parted. A rattling breath rushed through him and Jon felt a tremor in his hand.

“Oh,” he breathed, so softly Jon could hardly hear him. He blinked, slowly and deliberately, and looked down at Jon through hooded eyes.

“I- I’m sorry,” said Jon quickly, “I didn’t -”

“No, no, Jon,” Elias interrupted, an impish cruelty spreading over his face, “I’m happy to let you do the work for me.”

He relaxed his grip on Jon’s shirt and leaned back into his plush leather chair, rolling his shoulders to press more comfortably into it. Jon tried very hard not to pout.

“It was an accident,” he insisted, “I wouldn’t be able t-”

“Oh, but I think that you would,” Elias said calmly, drumming his fingers over his armrests.

Jon made some noncommittal sounds. He wanted Elias back touching him. He wanted Elias _interested_. He wanted more than anything to hear him make that sound again. That breathy, maddening exhalation of a composed man caught off guard. He wanted him unbalanced. He wanted to unbalance him.

“Alright,” he said, testing the waters, feeling the weight behind those syllables, “then teach. Me. A lesson.” He could feel it pulling from his chest and spilling out into the air, a force that seemed to pass through him from somewhere else.

Elias closed his eyes and tightened his grip, but outside of a gentle hitch of his breath, seemed unaffected.

“I admire your ambition, Jon,” he said through a smile, “but we’ll have to start smaller, I think.”

“Then tell me how,” Jon huffed.

“It’s a natural process,” Elias teased, steepling his fingers.

“That I can undertake more effectively,” Jon said, a saccharine lilt barely covering the frustration in his voice, “with your guidance.”

“Alright, Elias said gently, then, with pointed force, “what do you want?”

Jon swallowed. 

“I want you to be rough with me,” he said, and then, with a trembling uncertainty that would never have betrayed the frequency with which he’d made this same request, he added, “I like it…”

“Very good,” Elias cooed, “but let’s be more specific. What do you want me to do precisely?”

Jon flushed. He felt heat rising in his cheeks and a tightness close in around his chest. There was a vengeful prickling at the back of his neck; a needling mixture of gooseflesh and paranoid suspicion. An eldritch Voyeur’s delight at seeing an instrument of its influence pinned and squirming.

“Just to start,” Elias coaxed.

“I like it when you pull my hair,” said Jon, and added, in anticipation of the correction, “I want you to pull my hair.”

“Excellent,” Elias said, briefly splaying his fingers in a celebratory gesture, “Now think of that. Picture it vividly. Walk through the steps.”

Jon did as he was told, his mind immediately conjuring a memory of their first time, of his wandering hand and Elias’ stern reprimand. Then of their second, Jon pulled up from the floor and onto Elias’ desk, his legs pushed apart, his whole mouth coppery. Then again on the velvet chaise lounge, Elias pulling his head back to get at his neck.

“No,” Elias tutted, an uncharacteristic edge of annoyance in his voice, “not what you’ve had before. What you want now.”

Jon took a breath and raised his head to meet Elias’ eyes. He saw, with the same perfect clarity as he had watched his memories, Elias reaching down to pull him close, his hand closing in a fist near his scalp, twisting his hair between his fingers and nearly lifting him off the floor.

“Very good,” Elias said, his stoney gaze unwavering, “Now want it. Hold the thought in your mind clearly enough to make it so.”

Jon focused. He thought of Elias bringing his hand down and gently brushing his fingers through his hair. He thought of the weight of it resting on top of his head. He thought of his nails scratching gently over his scalp. He thought of that same gentle hand becoming cruel. He thought of Elias taking what he wanted. He thought of giving it to him eagerly.

“Excellent,” Elias purred, “That’s very good, Jon. Now, think. What has to happen first?”

“Sit up straight,” Jon said, and felt wholly changed. The power wasn’t pulled through him like a breaking tide, it came from him, anchored at his center and pushed forward like life sprouting from fecund earth. His words were more than what they were, and they were fully realized. Their intention was set. There was purpose to their form. And they hit their mark.

Elias’ jaw went slack and his eyes grew wide. He sat up, jolted to attention by a force that superseded his will. Jon watched his grip over the arms of his chair tighten. He certainly had his full attention now.

“Now spread your legs,” he said, and watched as Elias did so, splaying his thighs and shifting his feet until his knees hit the arms of his chair and could go no further. His breath came ragged, his chest rising and falling in short, sharp, jerking movements to match the staccato of his heart. Jon could feel it beating over his own. He could feel how dry his throat was, how his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he tried to swallow. He could feel the sweat on his palms and the tingle up his spine. He was getting hard, and he was panting like a prey animal.

“Tell me how you like this,” Jon said, surprised at his own boldness. 

As Elias spoke, his teeth chattered, rattling against the force with which his words were pulled from his mouth, “You’re doing marvelously, Jon,” he breathed, “I’m truly impressed with your progress.”

“Now lean forward,” said Jon, careful to progress in tiny increments lest he lose his newly found purchase, “and stretch out your hand.”

Elias did so, bringing his left hand forward to hover just in front of Jon’s face where he sat patiently on his haunches. He was hard, Jon could see the eager bulge in his lap and the tremor in his right hand as he ached to paw at it. More than that, he could feel it. He could feel Elias’ heart fluttering against his influence, his body at war with his mind, and both under his duress. He could feel the thrill it raised in him, and the fear. God, he could feel the fear. It drummed in his ears, sent shivers down his back, and it curled around the well in his heart from which he drew his Master’s influence. Like milk and honey. Strawberries and cream. He could feel how badly he wanted this and how badly he had misjudged its effectiveness. He could feel his terror and bask in its glory.

Jon leaned forward slightly, until his lips brushed the tips of Elias’ outstretched fingers. He opened his mouth to let them bump against his teeth.

“Bring me closer,” he said, and steeled himself for the aftermath. 

Elias, puppeteered though he was, was not want for lavish cruelty. He shoved his index and middle fingers into Jon’s mouth and hooked them behind his teeth, pulling him forward towards his lap with such force that he nearly toppled from his knees. Jon steadied himself against Elias’ legs, relaxing his jaw so as not to bite his fingers. He felt the drool pooling around his hand and threatening to pour over his lip. It did, as he spoke around the digits.

“Tell me how this makes you feel,” he demanded.

“Unparalleled,” Elias rasped, and his voice was a specter of itself, raw and ragged and pulled forcefully from his throat. Jon could feel it. He could feed off it. To compel Elias was to prod at an image of himself. To exert power and feel its influence in the subject that it acts upon. To experience and to inflict in equal and opposing measure, like kissing your reflection.

He felt fear and animal instinct. He felt pride. He felt eyes at the back of his neck. He felt the razor’s edge of secrets forcefully unveiled and the scintillating thrill of being seen when to be so would be calamitous. He felt Elias, as Elias, seated at the center of his power and subjected to the workings of it. Two hundred years of endless watching dedicated in the space they sat in now, and Elias Bouchard at the crown of it. Heavy hangs the head that wears the Watcher’s Crown. Jon felt himself approaching some great and terrible center, sinking too deeply into the bond he shared with the cosmic horror that joined them.

“E- Elias,” Jon waivered, and his voice was once again his own. 

He was himself, Jonathan Sims. Not The Archivist, not a power unknown made flesh unyielding; Jon Sims. A boy whose grandmother bought him what should have been a wholly unremarkable book some twenty five years ago.

“Elias, I don’t think I can do this,” he said, the quiver in his voice becoming a shake, “I want it to stop.”

Whatever strings were pulling Elias along his path broke then. The fog of obedient serenity that had clouded over his features and dulled his eyes was lifted in an instant. The hand he had hooked in Jon’s mouth relaxed, and in a moment he had slid completely off his chair, landing on his knees in front of Jon and descending on him in a flurry of kisses.

“Oh, you did beautifully, Jon,” he cooed, smoothing his hands over his hair and nuzzling his nose against his. He pressed their foreheads together and kissed a hundred times over the corners of his mouth. “Really wonderfully. I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud of your progress.”

“Are you alright?” he asked gently, lifting Jon’s head to meet his eyes.

Jon, by way of answering, crawled into his lap, entwining their legs and slipping his arms around Elias’ middle. He buried his face into the crook of Elias’ neck and felt him sigh, wrapping his arms around him and stroking his hair. He was still hard.

“I may have overestimated, Jon, I’m sorry,” Elias sounded contemplative and sincere, as if he were analyzing a data set, setting up a sample, and running a new experiment, “I didn’t intend to overwhelm you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Jon felt it would be redundant to agree. Of course he would. He always would. He already did. What joined them now could never be severed.

“We’ll try again some day, when you’re feeling up to it,” Elias soothed, “and there will be such sights to show you when you’re ready for them.”

Jon sat up, pulling away from Elias’ neck and bringing his right hand to his mouth to kiss his fingers. Elias watched him through half lidded eyes. He looked, for all his authoritative crooning, well ravished. His cheeks were flushed, his lids were heavy, and his hair awry. Their legs were still tangled together in a misplaced act of bedroom intimacy, played out on a cold black walnut floor.

“I might learn faster if you made me,” Jon offered, “If you showed me what you wanted…”

“No,” Elias said immediately. His tone was measured but unshakeable. “I appreciate your eagerness, Jon, but that is something I will never do.”  
“Not even when I ask for it?” Jon pulled back in surprise, pausing the row of kisses his lips had been tracing and retracing from the tip of Elias’ little finger to the pad of his thumb.

“Almost especially not then,” he said warmly.

“That’s cruel,” Jon pouted.

“In all other ways I will indulge you, Jon, but it is imperative that you continue on this path by your own purpose.”

“I want to know what it feels like.”

“Well, you won’t know it from me,” Elias said, with finality, “There can be no doubt that your patronage is given willingly and no suggestion for it to be taken otherwise.”

Elias drew his hand back, taking Jon’s with it, and chastely kissed his knuckles, “This was an ill conceived exercise,” he said, standing, “we’ll put it behind us.”

“I’m sorry, Elias,” Jon said quickly from the floor.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Jon,” he was smoothing his hair, adjusting his jacket, and settling back at his desk, cool as you please, “It was my fault. I miscalculated.”

“I could try again,” Jon tucked his legs under him, scanning Elias’ face. The whiplash from these transformations still stung. How Elias could manage to divorce himself so completely from their… what was an appropriate word for them? Trists? Encounters? Whatever they were he severed himself from them with surgical precision while Jon, before and after their occurrence, could think of nothing else.

“You could,” he said, uncapping his fountain pen and wiggling his ergonomic mouse, “and I’m certain one day you will. But we’ve reached the end of our exercise.”

“Are you…” Jon bit his tongue for a moment, considering how badly he needed an answer to his embarrassing question, “are you angry with me?”

“At myself,” Elias said. A moment of silence followed during which Jon felt simultaneously crushed by uncertainty, and weightless with the thrill of it. Elias sighed, and the hard line of his shoulders relaxed. He stared into the middle distance, not seeing his desk, looking somewhere far past his office.

“You did very well Jon,” he said softly, and turned at last to look at him, “I’m very proud of the aptitude you’ve shown and the progress you’ve made.”

Jon crawled forward and settled at Elias’ right knee, resting his head against it. He felt his hand back at the crown of his head, stroking softly and slowly through his hair. He rubbed his scalp and flexed his fingers against the tangles they encountered until they shook free.

“You’re progressing so quickly,” Jon heard him say from above, “You’ve shown such grace and courage, and sometimes I forget myself. I truly hope you’ll forgive me.”

“To what end are you being so careful with me?” Jon said, resting a hand on the back of Elias’ ankle. He was wearing argyle socks.

“Is ‘so as not to break you’ not satisfying enough?” he chided.

“Not convincing enough.”

“Well then I’m sorry to deny you the satisfaction, Jon, but that’s the start and end of it.”

Jon heard Elias’ typing resume overhead and closed his eyes in concession. It had been an ill conceived but not a futile exercise. If nothing else, it made him desperately eager to try his hand at this again.


End file.
